


change my friends to enemies (show me how it's all my fault)

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Series: change my friends to enemies [1]
Category: The Losers (2010), X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Black Character, Canon Character of Color, Character Death Fix, Character of Color, Comics/Movie Crossover, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Disabled Character of Color, Don't Have to Know Canon, First Time, Gift Fic, M/M, Male Character of Color, Mutant, Mutation, POV Character of Color, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Prompt Fic, Rare Characters, Rare Pairing, Superpowers, Team Dynamics, Temporary Character Death, Torture, X-Men Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Roque does is simple. He survives. Charles and the X-Men try to show him that he can do more than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	change my friends to enemies (show me how it's all my fault)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [helens78](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/gifts).



> A million and one thanks to [](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://lunesque.dreamwidth.org/)**lunesque** , whose knowledge of Marvel comics canon is astounding. She helped me make this better and encouraged me to keep writing and tell a more complete story, even though I insisted that this was supposed to be a short PWP. She's fucking sneaky and brilliant that way.
> 
> This fic is for [](http://helens78.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://helens78.dreamwidth.org/)**helens78** , who requested Armando/Roque when she properly guessed that I wrote a few fics for Remix Redux, because I'm so fucking obvious. But she's kind enough to keep it a secret until reveals. 
> 
> Since I wasn't quite sure how to warn for this without spoiling the fic, I chose to check 'Choose Not to Warn.' More explanation about this is in the End Notes.
> 
> One more note: I used a bunch of characters from X-Men comicsverse, but you don't have to be familiar with any comics canon, and there aren't any comics spoilers.

Roque's stuck at the ass-end of nowhere in a goddamn castle with a bald guy named Charles Xavier, who says, "I'm not sure how you survived, Mr. Roque—"

"Roque." If Roque's going to make anyone put a title in front of his name, it will be the Captain that he earned, but he lost that along with the rest of his life. 

Charles nods. "Yes, of course. Roque." He steeples his fingers and rests his chin on the tips, his smile warm and a little too inviting. It's hard to trust someone with such an open face. "As I was saying, I'm not sure how you survived, but the …" He makes a circular motion with his hand, the gesture delicate enough that Roque knows he's trying to talk around the fact that Roque's not telling him how he got here or the fact that his team blew up a fucking plane to get rid of him. "Yes," Charles says, and his mouth thins with a pained sort of sympathy that makes Roque narrow his eyes. That 'yes' sounded like an answer to a thought that he knows he didn't voice. "I'm sorry. You see, I'm a mutant, too."

Fucking figures. 

Charles winces. "I'm a telepath. It's difficult to ignore such strong …"

All it takes is a look — and one focused thought — for Charles to fall silent again and avert his eyes. 

"My apologies," he says, and then clears his throat, resting his hands in his lap. "As I was saying, I'm not sure how you survived, but the …" Roque stares at Charles, almost a dare, but Charles nods. " _Incident_ seems to have triggered your mutation. It's quite fascinating really." Charles begins to trail off and flashes an apologetic smile. "The point, of course, is that we have many mutants here. Like you, in fact, and you're more than welcome to stay and learn more about your abilities."

Roque learned enough in the Army, and this sounds too much like a cult, so he shakes his head and stands, hefting his duffel bag now that he's got a few answers, as unbelievable as they are. "I already know how to survive."

~*~

It's apparently an ability that Clay's trying to test. 

Along with the burn scars that snake down Roque's back, Clay gives him a starburst scar at his temple to add to the mix. It happens in a dive bar in D.C., where Roque was pretty sure no one was going to find him. He almost laughs when he spots Clay, and the rest is inevitable. 

Those first few weeks, his memory is just foggy enough that he ends up back at the mansion.

"Yo, you all right, man?"

Roque grunts, but all that comes out is what feels like ash and gun smoke before he falls forward, wondering if he made it home.

~*~

"He needs to rest, and then we'll—"

Whatever assessment Charles was making abruptly stops, and Roque doesn't bother pretending anymore. He opens his eyes, feeling worse than shit. At least the blood has cleared from his vision, enough that he can see that the kid leaning over him isn't Charles. 

"Hey," the kid says, and grins. "You all right there?"

Which is the stupidest thing Roque's heard. "What do you think?"

The question earns him a laugh, a sympathetic nod, and a, "Yeah, I know what you mean." But the kid's got the same open face that Charles does, and Roque's pretty sure he hasn't seen shit enough to understand what Roque's going through. 

When Charles finally moves into view, it's probably to tell Roque what he already knows. Clay caught him on a bad day and made it worse by finishing the job he started in L.A. Roque turns his head to tell Charles that he doesn't need to hear it, but moving is a mistake. The pain that he thought he should've felt when the bullet ripped through his brains comes back tenfold, so immediate and overwhelming that Roque's first instinct is to vomit. He tries closing his eyes and breathing instead, but that doesn't help much either.

"It's all right, Roque," Charles says. "You're with friends now."

Roque doesn't know how, but he falls asleep again with Charles' voice echoing in his head. 

~*~

"Hey."

A short, stocky guy peels away from the wall, stalling Roque's exit. Maybe it's something about the cigar in his mouth or the hardness in his eyes, but Roque can see ex-military in him. 

That doesn't mean that Roque takes the guy's, "The professor said you're supposed to be in bed," well at all, though. 

"I'm not sticking around," Roque says, his standard answer since he woke up and walked out of the infirmary. 

He steps around the guy, ignoring the snort and the cigar smoke as he heads west. 

"That's what we all say, bub."

~*~

Roque's holed down in Villa Nueva when Aisha finds him. He doesn't think it's coincidence when he steps away from the street vendor and sees her come around the corner. 

"I knew Clay was too sentimental," she says, but Roque doesn't let the bitterness distract him. 

He knew Clay better than anyone, but he doesn't waste time telling Aisha that. He drops his tamale and knocks her hand down before she can bring up her weapon, punching her square in the nose. The problem, though, is that she's wily, tough, and smart, and Roque's scars pull just enough to limit his range of motion. They trade several blows — punches, dodges, kicks — but she slips past his guard. There's no explaining the fire, but it's a good diversion, there and gone in a blink, just like Aisha jamming a knife between his ribs. He can feel his heart sputtering like so many of the words that he and Clay shared, but if this is going to be it for Roque, he's not going to let Clay be his last thoughts. Not again. 

He tries for a last swing, and his elbow connects with Aisha's face. Either he's too weak or she managed to avoid the full force of the blow. She staggers, wrenching the knife free, and then grabs a fistful of his shirt, jerks herself forward, and shoves the knife into his side again, piercing his lung. 

"You should've picked better allies," she says, almost whisper-soft in his ear. 

A bitter laugh gurgles up Roque's throat along with the blood. 

~*~

"Damn. I think you've got more enemies than we do."

It's the same kid that was hovering over Roque in the infirmary. A glance around tells him that (1) he's still in Villa Nueva, (2) he's in his hotel room, and (3) the obvious. Somehow, he's alive, even though he felt himself choking on his own blood. The taste of it is thick in his mouth, and he grabs his side in a knee-jerk reaction. His shirt's torn and tacky, but when he pushes a finger into the hole, all he touches is his own skin and a slightly puckered scar from Aisha's knife, dead on target. 

"You're okay," the kid says. "I was worried, but you pulled through once I brought you here." He extends a hand. "I'm Armando."

Roque doesn't take it, but Armando nods like it's no big deal as he drops his hand. 

"How'd you get here?" Roque asks, which is a stand in for a lot of questions. Mainly, how long has Charles had a tail on him. 

"The professor figured that I'm the only one who could survive whoever's after you. We got a little worried."

Which means they've been following Roque since he left the mansion. He shakes his head, not to let go of the disbelief — because he's holding onto it for as long as he can — but to make it clear that he doesn't need anyone spying on him, especially if he can survive all the shit that Clay and Aisha are throwing at him. 

He pushes himself up, because talking involves explaining things that are none of Armando's or Charles' business, but Armando grabs his shoulders, says, "Hey, hey. Take it easy there."

"Back off," Roque warns, and pulls his piece from beneath his pillow, thumbing off the safety as he presses the business end to the center of Armando's chest. 

Armando immediately raises his hands. "We're just trying to help. You look like you could use a few friends."

Had those, Roque thinks, edging off the bed. They tried— Well, according to Charles, they _did_ kill him. Roque slides off the bed to grab his bag and get the hell out before Aisha figures out that he's not dead. 

"Hey, man, believe it or not, I know this isn't easy."

Roque snorts. "You don't know shit."

Armando laughs and drops onto the bed like Roque doesn't still have his gun trained center mass. "See you around, man."

~*~

Around happens to be two months later when Cougar finds him. It happens in Bahía Blanca, the first real break Roque gets. He's not stupid enough to think that it will last. He treats it like shore leave, except he has to worry about paying rent and getting to work on time. 

He doesn't know Cougar's the one who takes him out until he wakes up, but he knows because he never sees it coming. One minute, there's sand in his boots and a stiff breeze coming off the ocean, and then in the next minute, he opens his eyes to Armando's grin. 

"Hey, glad to see you're okay. I'll let the professor know."

"It's all right, Darwin. I'm aware."

Roque shoots Armando a look, and Armando shrugs. "Nickname."

"One very unique to Darwin's ability." Charles smiles and gives the monitors a cursory glance. "How are you feeling, Roque?"

Roque thinks the answer to that should be pretty obvious, so he ignores it, clenching his jaw in memory of what happened the last time he tried to move. He sits up anyway, lets go of a slow breath, and waits for the pain to lay him out again. There's nothing. At least Cougar did it clean enough that Roque doesn't have the memory of dying. So he moves straight on to assessing the situation and the fact that he's in the mansion's infirmary again. 

"How'd I get here?"

Charles motions to Armando. "You have Darwin to thank for that." Which is a piss-poor answer in Roque's opinion. Probably sensing that, Charles is quick to add, "We were searching for another mutant in the area, but Darwin happened to see news of an incident at the beach."

"I had to bust you out of the morgue," Armando says, almost sheepishly. "Things got a little tricky, but no one knows you're here."

Roque's hoping no one expects him to say thanks. He didn't ask for this shit, and the moment his body turns up missing, the team's going to be looking for him again. 

Either Charles knows or he's observant enough to suspect, because he moves closer. His voice softens in a way that grates on Roque's nerves. Too much sympathy and too many reminders of what keeps bringing Roque right back here. "You'll be safe here, if you decide to stay."

One good thing about talking to a telepath is that Roque doesn't have to say that it's not going to happen.

Charles nods and says, "I understand," anyway.

~*~

I-40 headed west is long and boring, but Roque's trying to put as much distance between himself and the mansion as possible. New Mexico sounds quiet and out of the way enough that he's hoping no one's going to find him there. 

A few weeks on the road, and it sounds like a bigger possibility. Everything's fine until he gets pulled over in Texas for some bullshit, and the cop asks him to step out of the car. 

"License plate light is out," he says, and points to it. 

Roque's never heard of something so fucking stupid, but he stays quiet while the cop runs his driver's license and insurance. He knew the risk when he decided to cut through Texas. The whole thing takes too long, and the cop lets him off with a warning but follows him for a few miles down the road. 

When the cop finally peels away, Roque breathes out and maintains an even 70 until an 18-wheeler barrels down his ass, even when he switches to the right lane so it can pass. He tries speeding up, because if the load tips, the last thing he needs is to be stuck in an accident, but the truck follows right alongside him. He slows down, it's still there. 

In the split second when the truck hits his car, he knows who's behind the wheel, and he can't figure out how, because he's too busy jerking the car to the right. The second impact knocks him off the shoulder and into the ditch. There's no time to panic, but he can't figure out what the fuck is wrong with his hands or why his vision is so messed up that he thinks his hands are phasing through the door handle. He has seconds to move his ass, but he doesn't make it. 

In those last seconds, it feels a hell of a lot like the plane exploding again. 

~*~

Roque doesn't have to open his eyes to know where he's at.

"He obviously needs our help." And that would be Charles. 

Roque knew it. He can't seem to get far enough away from his team _or_ this damn mansion. He's tired, though — really fucking tired — so he wills himself to sleep like this is the last he'll have it. 

When he wakes up, the mansion's dead and dark, and Roque doesn't know why anyone thinks he's safer here when they don't even have a patrol set up. Fucking amateurs.

~*~

Amateurs or not, the last straw for Roque is Jensen. Roque's not stupid. He doesn't expect to get a chance to explain that what he did, he tried to do for the _team_ , that he tried to get them out while they had a chance, tried to get them home. He thought it'd be obvious that Clay was chasing after a ghost, especially when Max's whole wardrobe matched a little too well with the comparison, but they'd spent too long following Clay anywhere, everywhere. In the end, the fact is: no one gives a fuck why. 

It hits home in Jensen's silence, the way he tries to shoot Roque's kneecaps when Roque walks into his hotel room. Roque's cancelled flight makes a hell of a lot more sense now. 

Jensen's a good shot — when he remembers to bring his gun — so Roque's not sure how Jensen misses, but he takes advantage of it, lunging forward and tackling Jensen to the floor.

"Listen to me, man—" 

Jensen's elbow shuts him up, makes his teeth click so hard that they cut the inside of his lip, blood pooling fast in his mouth. Roque doesn't even have time to spit before Jensen's wriggling out from under him, ramming a knee into his side to keep him down. Jensen's fucking scrappy, and he makes the fight brutal and dirty. 

They used to be friends, but what hurts the most isn't the fact that Jensen's here to kill Roque, too. It's that he doesn't say one goddamn word, and Roque doesn't have another chance to.

~*~

"Roque." Charles almost sounds relieved when Roque bolts up. He can still feel the electrical cord digging into his throat, and no amount of rubbing his neck is going to get rid of the phantom sensation of it. "How are you feeling?"

Roque opens his eyes just enough to glare at Charles. "For a telepath, you ask some stupid fucking questions."

"Ah, yes," Charles says sheepishly. "My apologies."

~*~

Armando perches on the edge of Roque's bed even though Roque never gave him the invite. "How about this? Stick around for a while. We've got plenty of room here, and if those guys show up again, well." Armando grins. "We can handle it."

Roque has his doubts. Mutants or not, it's a school, and Roque and the team have infiltrated more heavily fortified targets. 

"I'm not staying long," he says, just so it's clear. 

"I get it." Armando sets a hand on Roque's knee, and Roque stares at it too long, reminded of too much. "No commitments."

~*~

On Roque's first official day of staying a while, he tries to figure himself out. He's willing to accept that he's a mutant, because there's no other way to explain how the hell he's surviving. He's got scars — and a bitter memory for each one — but staring into the mirror isn't going to solve his other problems, so he shrugs into some borrowed clothes and steps outside for some fresh air. 

It also won't hurt to get a lay of the land. Habit mostly. He wants an escape route in case anyone on the team figures out where he's at. 

The only sticking point in all of this is all the kids. Roque's not hiding behind them, but he knows that's what the team'll see if — _when_ — they show. Just like Fadhil, he thinks, and it makes him scowl. Hard not to think about Fadhil and not think about his daughter, too, who put a bullet in Jensen, nearly got them all killed, but who's buddied up with the team now. 

"Roque," Charles says warmly, coming out of nowhere. The chair's quieter than Roque thought, which is a pretty innovative design feature. "I'm happy to see you're moving about. Would you like a tour?"

Roque shrugs, noncommittal, but Charles recognizes it for a yes. 

The mansion is bigger than Roque thought and the land spreads out for what looks like miles. There's gotta be more here, more than what Charles is choosing to show him. 

One great thing about a telepath: streamlined communication. At the end of the tour, Charles stops in front of a classroom and looks up at Roque with a smile. 

"We help many students here," he says, "but we're not helpless. I hope you'll come to see that."

~*~

What Roque sees his second day is Armando pushing a kid out the fucking window. Roque dives for her on instinct, but Armando grabs his arm and sets a hand on his chest to hold him back. Roque's just short of throwing Armando into the wall when Armando raises his hands.

"Whoa, it's okay. Just watch and see."

It's the first real glimpse that Roque gets of what Charles means when he says, "Mutant," and what Armando means when he says, "We can handle it." 

The girl's got wings, pale like a dragonfly's, one beat every few minutes keeping her afloat. She spins around, arms spread wide, and then stops mid air, staring at Roque. Her eyes look weird, but Roque drops his gaze, estimates the distance between the window and the ground.

"Oh," she says. "Hi."

Armando laughs. "Go on and play, Pixie. We'll work on this some more later, okay?"

"Sure!" She zips down to the ground, where there are other kids. It's obvious they're playing a game, but for the first time, Roque sees how they play — flying, floating, shooting fireballs, turning into steel. 

"See, man?" Armando bumps Roque's arm as he shuts the window. "We have a nice little home here."

~*~

"Hey," Armando says, and slides onto the bench next to Roque. "You getting settled?"

"I'm not staying," Roque repeats, even though a while has turned into several weeks. 

Armando laughs. "Yeah, I know. You say it every chance you get. But since you're here, I was wondering. You used to be military, right?"

Roque's ready to pack and go. Armando eases back, hands held up in surrender, and for a second, Roque wonders if his mutation is intuition or seeing the future. He's learning to take Charles', "Anything is possible," as fact. 

"Logan's got an eye for it," Armando says. "He used to be military, too. Long history from what I understand. And trust me, man, I'm not trying to pry. As far as I'm concerned, this is your fresh start, and we're happy to have you here."

Roque's a little more willing to hear the rest of what Armando's got to say and relaxes his fingers from around the bench. "Who's Logan?"

"Wolverine?" Armando laughs, rubbing the back of his neck when Roque doesn't do anything but stare. "Adamantium claws?" Which sounds like some made up shit, but Roque's been here long enough to see Logan cut through a lot of things. "Bad attitude but a heart of gold? Likes his cigars?" Roque doesn't give away that he knows who Logan is, and Armando wraps it up with another laugh and a shake of his head. "Never mind. I was hoping you could help us out with one of our students. She's having some trouble …" Armando trails off the longer that Roque stares at him, and eventually, he claps Roque's shoulder and stands. "You know what? Never mind. You relax and get comfortable. Enjoy the sunset."

Armando's got piss-poor persuasion skills, and Roque's wondering what Charles' gameplan is, why he keeps sending Armando. Roque's not stupid enough to think all their encounters are an accident. Roque doesn't chase after it, though. He's got nothing to bring to these kids.

~*~

The kid has a name, though, and a problem that Roque can't ignore when she nearly takes out the west wing of the school, and he mistakes the explosion for his team. 

Her name is Boom-Boom, which is laughable, but Roque's heard worse call names in the Army. 

"What's your real name?" he asks.

She kicks a tuft of grass and murmurs something that sounds like Abba. Roque patiently waits for something he can actually hear, gaze steady as he watches her dig a hole in the ground with the toe of her shoe. 

"Tabitha, okay?" she snaps, and jumps to her feet with all the flash and annoyance of a 15-year-old. "What do you want anyway?"

Roque folds his arms over his chest and stares her dead on. It's probably not the best approach for someone so young, but it's what he's got. "I want to see what you can do."

He just doesn't expect to die in the process.

~*~

"I'm so glad you're alive," Armando says, and actually sounds relieved. Then Roque realizes that the pressure on his fingers is Armando's hand wrapped around his. "I'm going to let Tabby know you're awake. Be right back."

Armando jogs through the door, and Roque takes a moment to breathe, trying to adjust to the fact that he's alive. Again. With another memory of burning alive. 

"I won't ask you how you are," Charles says when the doors swish open. He smiles like they're sharing a joke. Roque's doesn't have enough distance and time to find any of this funny, and Charles must be peeking in his head again, because his smile fades to a more sympathetic expression. "I am curious as to why you decided to approach one of our more … _inexperienced_ students."

 _Wasn't that your plan?_ Roque wants to ask, but in the end, there's only one answer. "She needed the help."

Charles nods. "She still does," he says softly. 

Tabitha bursts through the door with a loud, "Oh my god!" 

Roque expects her to come flying on top of the bed, but she catches sight of Charles and skids to a halt, backing up to the door again. 

"So, uh, you okay?" she asks. 

Armando snorts, giving her a gentle nudge forward. "Come on, Tabby. Go and give him a hug, at least."

"I'm not the hugging type," Roque says.

Tabitha finally looks at him, pursing her lips like she's fighting off a grin. "Me either." She scuffs the floor with her sneaker, says, "So I'm—" She finishes off with a shrug, but Roque doesn't have to be a telepath to know what 'sorry' looks like. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Yeah, me, too," serves as his all clear.

~*~

All Roque has to do is help Tabitha understand that she _is_ a bomb. It takes five mishaps — that somehow don't end with Roque dead or in the infirmary — and two weeks before she says, "Okay, I get it! Geez."

Then he starts teaching her the mechanics of a bomb, ignoring the way she rolls her eyes and huffs through most of it, because it's obvious that she's paying attention in the way that she stares at his crude sketches and stops popping her gum. 

"So," she says after another lesson on detonation sequences and blast radius. She plucks the gum out of her mouth and begins stretching it between her fingers. "What can you do anyway? I mean, you know." She shrugs. "Your mutation or whatever."

Roque's pretty sure Charles has a name for it listed somewhere, but his answer is a hell of a lot simpler. "I survive."

"Yeah," she says, and pops the gum back into her mouth. "Me, too, you know?" As nonchalant as she tries to say it, Roque knows there's more to it than that. "So do you think the professor's gonna expel me?"

Roque doesn't even know how Charles finds these kids or houses all of them under the guise of a fancy private school. "I don't know," he says. "You'd have to ask him."

Tabitha rolls her eyes. "Like I _want_ to go to the principal's office and give him ideas."

Roque taps the dry erase board. "Then stop worrying about it and start studying."

"Fi-ine," Tabitha huffs. "Geez." 

~*~

"Yo, Roque!" Armando waves for Roque's attention and then jogs across the field. He's not even out of breath when he stops to say, "Never got a chance to thank you for helping Tabby out. Whatever you're doing, it seems to be working."

"Yeah," Roque says, and keeps walking.

"I was wondering if you wanted to go into town with me. Maybe catch a bite to eat. The mansion's nice, but the best burgers are in the city. We can get a beer, too."

Roque glances at Armando, but before he can say anything, Armando raises his hands and starts walking backwards. 

"This is my way of saying thanks. Tabby's been having a tough time since she got here."

A beer and a burger do sound nice, so Roque nods, says, "I'm driving," before he thinks about it. 

The moment the words are out, though, he feels his mood turn sour, thinks about Pooch and how an 18-wheeler crushed him to death. Armando flings an arm around his shoulders, jogging him out of his memory. 

"Then let's drive in style, my man."

~*~

As big as the mansion is, Roque expects the garage to house a few cars. He doesn't expect a whole floor display of expensive vehicles. Armando's the one who chooses the sleek blue Mazda while Roque's too busy staring at a Ducati and wondering who the hell _that_ belongs to.

"That one's nice, but this one's the best," Armando says, and tosses Roque the keys. "Take a peek under the hood and then we'll head out."

It used to be something he did with the guys, but Armando has the same appreciation for a nice engine that Roque does, and it makes the drive that much sweeter. What Roque refuses to do, though, is get comfortable, even if the car drives so smooth that he hits 90 before he realizes how fast he's going. He's not sure what purpose a car like this serves for a school when half the kids are under 16 and the other half he wouldn't trust with something this expensive, but it's nice.

"You can hit the gas again," Armando says halfway out. "I promise I'll survive whatever you throw at me," which he punctuates with a wink. 

Not for the last time, Roque wonders if there's anything Armando doesn't laugh at or doesn't smile for, but he maintains a sedate 35 into the city limits, ignoring the way Armando grins as he rolls down the window. 

As promised, he buys Roque a burger with all the fixins, fries, and a pitcher of beer. Roque wondered if Armando was legal enough for a drink, but it seems he is. Or he's got a really good fake ID. 

Roque's fully prepared for dinner to serve as an interrogation, but Armando doesn't ask any questions except what Roque thinks about the burger when it arrives.

"It's good," he says, which is true. Cooked to order and damn good beef. The best Roque's had in a long time. Working odd jobs meant a lot of cheap food, but he's always known how to make do. "Beer sucks, though."

"I wasn't sure what you liked." Armando drenches his fries in ketchup and then tops off both of their mugs. "I'll do better next time."

Roque knows he hasn't given off any sign that there's going to be a next time, but next time happens to be when they're done with their meal and the first pitcher is empty.

Armando slides the drink menu across the table. "Tell me what you want."

It sounds like an invitation, but if it is, Roque passes on it with a shake of his head. "I'm good right now."

"Cool," Armando says, and orders from the tap.

Roque can't remember anything — or anyone — that's been this simple and easy to please.

~*~

"Scott says I have to take English," Tabitha huffs, flopping onto the grass, even though Roque gave her the day off. "It's so _boring_."

Roque doesn't bother responding. It's a school, so he expects the kids to be taking some basic classes like math, science, and English, and not just how to use their mutant powers without killing anyone. 

"Hey!" Tabitha bolts up, and Roque knows she's going to share a bad idea. "Maybe you can teach! Like you could _totally_ teach science and stuff. You'd be the coolest science teacher."

"I'm not good at science," Roque says. Or at teaching, in general, but he knows Tabitha's not going to make the distinction between what they do one-on-one and Roque in front of a classroom of kids. 

Tabitha frowns. "But you know how to blow stuff up." Case in point.

Roque almost barks a laugh. "The Army taught me that."

"Oh god." Tabitha flops onto her back again, covering her face. "Please don't teach P.E. I _hate_ P.E., and I don't want to hate you, too."

No one's around to see Roque crack a smile.

~*~

"Roque," Charles says, catching him in the hall after another session with Tabitha. "I'm glad I found you. I was hoping we might have a chance to work on _your_ abilities." Roque can't stop the thoughts that burst in his mind — all the explosions, Clay's bullet, Aisha's knife, Jensen, Pooch. It's obvious that it bleeds out strongly enough for Charles to catch it, because he flinches, looks horrified, shakes his head like he's warding off the jumble. Roque shuts himself down and thinks about blank spaces, empty bedrooms, dark hallways. "No. We wouldn't— We would _never_ subject you to that."

Roque maintains an even tone as he asks, "How else am I supposed to practice?"

"You've survived Tabitha's … outbursts. This might mean that you've developed a secondary mutation."

Like phasing in and out of things. Like fires that can't be explained. "Okay." Roque has his Desert Eagle locked in a safe in his room. He's sentimental to the brand, not the memories, but it carries those, too. "Let's start with something I've survived."

For a split second, Charles looks sick, but he nods, turning away, too quick that Roque can't decipher why. 

~*~

"Logan, if you will," Charles says. And maybe the simple answer is that Charles has a problem with guns. 

Roque's problem is that he's tired of staring down the barrel of one, and Logan on the end of his seems like a really bad idea. He's strapped to a chair, because there's no reality he can imagine where he doesn't fight tooth and nail to stay alive. Even now, with Charles' assurances and Logan's steady hand, he's struggling to work his wrists free of the rope, jaw clenched, breaths a little too quick, a little too panicked. 

«It's all right», Charles says. 

Like hell it is. 

It's probably better that Logan doesn't do an execution-style countdown. Roque's breath strangles in his lungs when he hears the shot, and he gives one final jerk to free himself only to watch the bullet pass right through his chest.

Everything's a little too quiet after that as Roque lifts his hand, phasing right through the ropes, and stands. 

"How the fuck … ?"

"Neat trick there," Logan says, and ejects the clip. "Could come in handy."

"Extraordinary," Charles says, and then delicately, "Are you all right?"

For the first time, Roque can say, "Yeah," and mean it. 

~*~

"You want me to …" Tabitha bites her bottom lip and looks at Roque. 

"Hey," Armando says, and moves forward, squeezing her shoulder. 

It's Roque who says, "It's okay."

Charles swears that Armando can survive anything, but Roque's the one who has to field another one of Tabitha's bombs, the one who might not make it out of this when she goes critical. 

"Are you sure?" Tabitha asks. "I mean, are you _sure_ sure, because I don't—"

"Do it," Roque says. 

Tabitha shakes herself out, rolling her neck, taking several deep breaths. She's stalling, but Roque lets her. "This is so stupid," she mutters, but closes her hands into fists, lights them up, brighter and brighter in the increments that Roque's been teaching her. "Boom."

He still hasn't shaken her of the catch phrase, but he's too busy wondering how the hell he's going to survive this. He's not aware his eyes are shut until he hears Armando say, "Open your eyes, man. You have to see this."

"Oh my god," Tabitha says. "Oh my god. Roque! That is so totally cool!"

When Roque opens his eyes, Armando's standing in front of him. He's the one who looks different, skin black and scaled before it recedes to something Roque recognizes as human.

"I meant look at _you_ ," Armando says, chuckle soft as he sweeps a look over Roque. 

Roque raises his hands, staring at them for a long time before he realizes that he's glowing. He also realizes he's waiting for someone to break the mood with a terrible joke. 

He's almost startled when Armando steps forward, holds his palm against Roque's. "The professor was right."

"You're just like Darwin!" Tabitha sprints up to them and slaps Roque's shoulder. "Maybe we can call you Galapagos. Or something. Whatever. You totally need a new name now."

"Roque's good enough," he says.

"Oh, come _on_. You need a way better name than that."

Armando nudges Roque with an elbow. "Wanna be my sidekick?" 

Tabitha grabs Roque's arm and tugs him away. "Nuh-uh, not even, Darwin. We're a _team_ , not some dumb sidekicks."

Roque misses the rest, because he can't stop turning 'team' over in his head when it still brings up Clay, Pooch, Cougar, and Jensen, when it reminds him that they're going to find him sooner or later.

~*~

Roque catches Charles in the hall and finally gets a chance to ask, "How'd you know?"

"Your memories are very strong," Charles says. "I suspected that if you—" Roque doesn't want Charles to say friends or enemies, but there's not a word that he can settle on either. Charles carefully doesn't say anything, and Roque doesn't have to say thank you but thinks it. "If they hadn't been so tenacious, I believe you would have survived each encounter. Ororo."

"Professor," she says, and offers a smile to Roque in greeting. 

He nods before Charles says, "I'm sorry, Roque. If you'll excuse me? We can discuss this in more detail later this evening."

Roque shakes his head. "Won't be necessary."

He nods at Ororo again out of respect and then heads outside for a walk. His instincts prove him right when he looks up and sees a jet head southeast. There's no telling where it came from, but it's vertical lift before it takes off means that it's housed somewhere at the mansion. 

~*~

Roque gets a few answers but more questions when the mansion is attacked two weeks later. At first, he thinks it's the team — because that'll always be first in his head no matter how many weeks bleed together — and then he thinks it could be Tabitha or one of the other kids. He sprints down the hall anyway and tells everyone to, "Get down!" when an explosion goes off downstairs, a little too close for comfort. 

Everything else after that is instinct and adrenaline as he shoves the kids back into their rooms, moving steadily down the hall and nearly blowing Armando's head off. 

"We've got this," Armando says, unphased. "Keep everyone up here safe."

Logan smirks, claws sliding out from his skin. "Don't let anyone die."

It's a warning, and one that Roque accepts with a nod. Armando runs downstairs, and Logan leaps off the banister. Fact is, if this _is_ the team, Roque knows that whatever's going on downstairs is a distraction, and he's not going to hide behind these kids. He tells them to stay low, keep their doors shut, and heads downstairs, sticking close to the wall. 

When Roque reaches the kitchen, he doesn't expect to see a guy backing Ororo up by creating a literal firewall. At this range, a clean shot is easy. 

There's no way this is the Losers, but before Roque can wonder who the hell it _is_ , something is knocking his piece from his hands and slamming him against the counter. 

He's learned enough to know that his powers are reactive, but he doesn't expect to start reaching for the goddamn fire, swinging it and aiming it as easy as a rifle and knocking the mutant out the window. 

«They're retreating.» Roque shakes his head at the sound of Charles' voice, hearing it and not seeing Charles a little too jarring to process with everything else that's going on. «Is everyone all right?»

Roque wants to know what the hell is going on and expresses as much. 

«Yes, of course, but first, let's take care of our wounded.»

It's the perfect answer to shut Roque up. "You okay?" he asks Ororo. 

She nods. "Yes, thank you. Are you?"

"I'm alive."

Her brows furrow in worry, and Roque doesn't take the time to explain how it's a good thing — being alive. In a fight like this, it's all he can ask for. 

~*~

"Who was it?" Logan asks, using the back of his fist to wipe the blood off his chin. 

"I'm not sure," Charles says.

When Logan spots Roque walking to the door, his claws come out. Roque doesn't move, arms folded over his chest as he stares Logan head on. 

"It's all right," Charles says, moving between them. "I asked Roque to be here."

"Is that wise, professor?" Scott asks, sliding a glance in Roque's direction, too.

Ororo steps forward. "He helped us, though no one asked him to. He handled himself well."

It's Charles' nod of approval that everyone is waiting for, though, and when Charles gives it, the circle opens up to welcome Roque in. He stays right where he is, near the door, and listens to the debrief. 

"The kids are okay," he reports. "So let's get back to who the fuck was that and what did they want."

No one answers the question. No one knows. 

Armando sighs and turns to Roque, looking a little older, a little harder as he says, "We have a few enemies, too."

~*~

Ororo suggests tea, and Logan suggests a round of beers. "Maybe shots," he adds, "but we don't want red eyes over here to lose control."

"Not everything can be solved with liquor," Scott says dryly.

"Violence works, too," Logan says with a smirk. 

It's the hard-edged humor that Roque appreciates, and he shares that beer with Logan. They clink their bottles together and then swig a third of the beer down.

"So," Roque says to kick this off. 

Charles nods, and then he shares the story. There's a whole, long history that Roque doesn't need to know. What he wants are the facts and interrupts Charles as often as he needs to to get them, ignoring the frown that Scott keeps shooting his way and the snort that comes from Logan. 

"They're misguided," Charles says reluctantly. "There are factions that believe we're at war with those who aren't mutants."

Roque has a lot of feelings about the word war. Him and Logan both, it seems, because they're the ones sharing a look across the room, that grim understanding of what it means when they step into the field. 

"I believe we can live in peace," Charles continues. 

"Magneto, on the other hand," Armando says. 

And Roque doesn't know how the hell he keeps getting involved with people whose convictions land him in the crossfire. 

~*~

"So." Armando follows Roque out, bumping Roque's arm with an elbow. "Thought you weren't staying." It's a light-hearted jab, warmed by Armando's smile. 

Roque shrugs. "I'm not. That doesn't mean I can't help out and be useful."

"About that." Armando steps in front of Roque, setting a hand on Roque's arm that feels a little too personal.

Roque recognizes that expression, says, "Don't," at the same time that Armando says, "Thanks."

Armando laughs and squeezes Roque's arm, each finger pressed too warm against Roque's skin. "You're due a thank you. You helped us protect these kids—"

"It was nothing," Roque says, since 'don't' isn't working. He pulls his arm free of Armando's grip. "I'm not—"

"I know," Armando says, and meets Roque's eyes. "This isn't me asking you to stay, man. It's just a simple, no-demands-for-commitment thank you."

Roque nods, keeping the 'you're welcome' behind his teeth. 

"Come on." Armando's hand brushes Roque's stomach as he walks away, and it makes Roque's muscles jump, the ghost of Armando's touch lingering along his skin. "We could use your help with cleanup, too."

~*~

"Oh my god!" Tabitha tosses her hands into the air. "Not all of us are kids, okay! We can help! I could have totally kicked some bad guy butt, you know." She throws a few weak punches that make Roque frown.

He grabs her fists, adjusts her stance. "Like this. If you get into a fight, you want to knock through them." She gives him a look that he returns with one of his own. "And not with an explosion."

She rolls her eyes. " _So_ not the point."

She listens anyway, which is how this works. Roque doesn't let her stop until she lands a few solid punches without flaring up. After a few more minutes of experimental jabs at the bad guys when Roque's shoulders can't take anymore, she stops and looks at him, fifteen again and too damn young to be dealing with people who want her dead. 

"So is everyone okay?" she asks. 

"Yeah," has always been an easy lie to tell.

~*~

"Pack an overnight bag," Armando says, and holds up two airline tickets. "We're headed to Vegas."

Roque pauses at Vegas. "What's in Vegas? Besides the obvious."

"Recruitment. Part of our jobs as the good guys." Armando strolls right into Roque's room and sits on the bed, putting a crease in what was a perfect job. Roque's annoyed enough that he doesn't tell Armando that he doesn't believe in the good guy spiel. "I thought we could go together and get you out of the house before you go stir crazy. You up for a trip?"

Roque tosses the essentials in a duffel bag, ready in the time that it takes Armando to explain the situation. "Charles put you up to this?"

Armando grins. "Naw, man. This is all me. I could use the company."

~*~

Roque doesn't bat an eye at the single room with two twin beds. He's had to share closer quarters on duty. 

He barely sets down his bag before Armando's saying, "Let's go out and get something to eat."

Armando is forthcoming and open about the trip — and it takes more effort than it should to think of it as a trip instead of a mission. He gives Roque all the key details about the mutant that they're here to find. Some woman with the very unique gift of controlling pheromones. 

"We're going to have to be careful," Armando says, and Roque's not drunk or stupid enough to miss the way Armando hedges in on his space — just like Jensen, just like Clay — and has been since Roque first appeared at the mansion. 

Even the warning, "Be careful," is an echo of the past. 

That's when Roque stops at beer four, ready to head back just as the crowd begins to trickle in.

Once they're back at the hotel and in their room, it's easy to make the first move. There aren't any restrictions or protocols, no risks. 

"You're too young for me," he says, and sits on the bed to pull off his boots.

"You're kidding, right?" Armando turns on the lamp between the beds and sits on his own. "You know I'm not a student, right?"

"And I'm not that stupid." Roque drops his boot to the floor. It lands with a thunk that's final enough for this conversation. 

"Roque. Man." Armando shakes his head and reaches for his wallet. "Not being interested is one thing but—" He pulls out his ID, holds it out as he says, "I'm as old as you are."

It's a little hard to believe, but Roque takes the ID for the intel. There's not much he can do with it, since he doesn't have anyone who can run the background. Except for Charles, he guesses, but it seems Armando's been at the school a while. If the DOB on his license is true, 'a while' is an understatement. That doesn't stop Roque from tilting it up in search of the holographic print.

Armando laughs like he expected nothing else. "I know. I look young for my age. I figured out I stopped aging when I turned 27. Charles says it's another adaptation." His fingers brush Roque's when he takes back his ID, and the look they share confirms that it wasn't an accident. "Logan's older than he looks, too. We have a betting pool on it, but I'm sure he's got it rigged his way, but." He sets the wallet on the table between the beds and stands. Roque doesn't take the height difference personally. Armando isn't looming with any authority. "I'm guessing you don't want to talk, huh?" Roque answers by not moving when Armando sets a hand on his cheek, fingers warm against Roque's skin. "That's cool. I can adapt to that."

The kiss is warm, too, but Roque can't get attached to the sensation of it, doesn't let himself think about how long it's been since he's had something as easy as a kiss. Armando's nothing like Clay, so all of this is easy. Easier. Armando's skinnier, which is the most obvious difference, but his hands are everywhere, too, not just on Roque's cock. 

It's why Roque stiffens when he feels Armando's hands slip beneath his shirt, tracing along the scars roped all across Roque's back. 

"It's cool," Armando murmurs against his mouth, arms tightening to keep Roque in place, which only makes Roque resist a little more, tense up to fight if he has to, because fighting is something he's used to. "Let me …"

Armando strips him down, easy, smooth, almost before Roque can blink. He expects Armando to stare, but Armando moves in, drags his mouth warm down Roque's chest. Roque can almost forget his mental catalogue of all the scars puckered on his skin, but he can't seem to fully purge the list, can't help but mark a mental _here_ and _here_ when Armando's hands skim down his body. 

"Fuck," Roque says, because Armando's distracting, because this feels too damn good to get caught up in things that he can't change. 

So to his memories, he says, _Fuck this_. No other way it can be. He flips Armando onto his back and kisses him rough and hurried like this is a quickie at the back of a humvee, because _fuck this_ can't completely break him of years of something so familiar that it becomes habit. 

He unbuckles Armando's belt, removes it with a sharp tug, but can't pull away to get the rest of Armando's clothes off when Armando grabs the back of his neck and keeps their mouths crushed together. Armando's limber enough that a combination of twisting, wriggling, and grinding somehow get his pants pooled at his ankles. Roque doesn't question it. He helps with the rest of Armando's clothes until there's nothing between them. It's not true, but it's close enough.

It gives Roque enough pause and enough sense to say, "Condom," before they go any further.

Armando arches up, laugh breathless, his cock pushing hot against Roque's stomach before he says, "Sure, man, sure. Gotta let me up first."

Roque rolls onto his side to give Armando the space, and Armando takes advantage. The squeeze of his hand on Roque's dick is as unexpected as the kiss, taken with single-minded confidence and a hum of appreciation. Before Roque can retaliate, Armando's rolling off the bed and rooting around in his suitcase. He comes up with two condoms, and Roque arches an eyebrow in response, because he hadn't expected Armando to have any. 

"I have more if you think we'll need them," Armando says, and drops the condoms onto the bed, running a hand up Roque's hip. "I hope we'll need 'em."

"Later," Roque says, and tugs Armando up, toppling him onto his back again and focusing on this between them, so he doesn't have to remind either one of them that he's not sticking around.

"Yeah," Armando gasps.

The rest is garbled in a kiss that Roque loses himself to, so caught up that he's not sure how Armando slips his hold. He doesn't know how Armando's mutation works, but he's about to call Armando on it. What slips out is a groan when Armando's mouth latches onto his pulse, sucking with the right amount of pressure that it makes Roque shiver, makes him forget, for a moment, that there's someone at his back that he's not sure he can trust. The clench of Armando's fist on his cock helps him keep forgetting that.

"So this is what I want," Armando says, probably because Roque's not subtle enough to let Armando pressed along his back last for more than another twenty seconds. "I want you however you're comfortable, but I want your cock in my mouth. We got a deal?"

Armando's not using any tricks to get a yes, his fingers loose around Roque's cock that it's frustrating before Roque focuses. It also earns a little more of Roque's respect. "I can't lay on my back for too long," he says, honest and serious. 

He can feel the stretch of Armando's smile against his throat, just past where the scars are too thick for him to feel much of anything but sharp, prickling pain. "I can work with that," Armando says, and then he's shifting to Roque's left. "Let's try this."

His hands are firm but not pushy. He lets Roque move at his own pace to get his legs over the side of the bed and spread while Armando settles on the floor, tearing open the condom. 

"You tell me when you need to move, okay?"

Roque gives a nod in the affirmative and keeps his eyes wide open, fixed steady on Armando's face, so there's no confusion. Armando doesn't make this quick, hurried, or dirty. He takes his time, licking Roque from the heavy sag of his balls to the head of his cock, and Roque can't keep his eyes open for long after that. He can't keep himself quiet or still either and sets a hand on Armando's shoulder as leverage, thrusting into the warm, sucking pressure of Armando's mouth. Armando's hands stay relaxed around his thighs, and he doesn't blink or bitch when Roque needs to shift to put the headboard at his back, so he doesn't have to support so much of his own weight. 

Armando never lets Roque's cock slip free of his mouth, chasing after it, hungry and focused and so fucking intent that Roque almost feels like he's losing this fight. He rocks into Armando's mouth, clutches Armando's shoulder, chest squeezed tight, because Armando's accommodating this rough pace, too, keeping his teeth safely tucked out of the way as Roque fucks his mouth until he can't hold back anymore and comes. It hits him quick, rolling through him in a full-body shudder that leaves him feeling shaky and weak. 

"Yeah," Armando says, and licks his lips, "I've been wanting that a long time." His voice is breathless but smooth like Roque didn't just fuck his throat nearly raw. 

Roque's still trying to catch his damn breath, but curiosity wins out before he does. "You really adapt to everything?"

Armando drops a kiss to Roque's thigh, trailing them up to Roque's stomach, chest, shoulder, legs bracketing Roque's hips as he slides carefully onto Roque's lap. "We have all night for me to prove it to you, if you're up for it."

Roque fists his cock, eyes fluttering shut from the jolt of pleasure that zips up his body. He's erect but flagging, and swallows past the dryness in his throat. "Give me a minute."

Armando's breath tickles Roque's ear when he laughs. "As long as you need."

~*~

Roque doesn't wake up fully, but he tenses when the bed shifts and reaches under his pillow out of instinct. 

"Hey, it's just me," Armando says, and Roque relaxes a little more.

"You good?"

"Everything's cool. Go back to sleep."

The kiss brushed against his temple has to be a dream, but Roque's too tired to force himself to wake up completely. He watches Armando vanish into the bathroom and then goes back to sleep.

~*~

The next morning, he wakes up to Armando gesturing at the bathroom with his toothbrush. "All yours, man. Charles said we could probably find her at the X-Ranch." Before Roque can look at the clock and see what time it is, the zip of Armando's suitcase is followed by, "It's early. I thought we'd get breakfast and hang around. Unless"—Armando smirks—"you want to do something else?"

Roque pauses and considers it. "Let me have a shower first."

"A little backwards," Armando laughs, "but sure. Want me to order room service?"

"Maybe later," Roque says, and locks himself in the bathroom. 

He gets a good long look at himself in the mirror. His own face can't believe this bullshit either, but he says it anyway. "I'm not sticking around."

All he has to do is figure out where the hell he's going after this.

~*~

"You boys looking for something a little exotic?" Stacy asks when the Madam calls her down. 

"We're, uh, here on business," Armando says.

"Of course you are, baby," she says, and touches them both as she walks past, fingers gliding smooth despite the scales covering what they can see of her body, which is a hell of a lot. The transparent, silk robe doesn't hide much.

Roque's never been so painfully hard so quickly, and he breathes deep, as deep as he can, holding his breath and almost making himself dizzy on the short walk to that private room. 

Armando makes his appeal, so genuine and sincere that it's almost hard to hear. Roque's waiting for Armando to talk about pay grades and what Stacy can do for her country if she enlists. She's too jaded to fall for the speech, and she keeps fucking with them, each teasing caress only making Roque's arousal worse. The sweat beading on his forehead starts dripping down to his cheek, making his shirt cling to his skin. He wants to get the fuck out of here, but Armando keeps talking, keeps saying, "We can help you," and "The school is a sanctuary for people like us."

After half an hour, she laughs and finally says, "No, thanks. I'm not interested. That'll be 150. _Each_."

Roque expects the hustle. He doesn't expect Armando to actually fucking pay it, making a point to set the school's business card on top of the bills. "If you ever want to get away from here and learn more about what you can do," Armando says, trying to catch her eye.

Stacy smirks and trails a finger down Armando's arm, tapping the top of his hand before she takes the money. He shudders, and Roque guesses there are some things not even Armando can adapt to. 

"Come and visit," Armando finishes, so breathless that it sounds like a come on, but Armando stands in a rush, looks stricken and serious as he repeats himself, voice a little steadier for the second entreaty.

"You, too, baby," Stacy purrs, and smacks Armando's ass as she saunters out the door. 

"Fuck this," Roque mutters, adjusting his cock in his jeans for a fifth time. Nothing's relieving the pressure. 

"How about me?" Armando asks, swallowing hard after he's asked. He takes it back with a weak, nervous laugh, and rubs his head. "Let's get out of here before—"

"Yeah," Roque says. 

They fuck in the car — dirty, quick, familiar. It's uncomfortable as fuck, and Roque jams his elbow into the damn door when Armando sucks him down, but stopping isn't an option when need is so heavy and thick in his lungs that he can't breathe until he's come, can't stop until he makes Armando gasp out, "God, yeah, yeah."

During the drive back to the hotel, though, Armando looks embarrassed, sneaking a glance at Roque every five minutes. When they get back in their room, it's hard not to see the slow way Armando moves as an apology, the way he undresses Roque the moment they're through the door, kisses him slow and sweet as they stumble toward the bed like there's more to this than sex and a little bit of relief. 

Roque takes it, though, because he needs some better memories for the road.

~*~

The easiest part is that no one's paying any attention when he packs everything he's got into his duffel bag and walks out the door. 

He hitches his way to Missouri with a truck driver named Tom. "Hop in. I can always recognize a fellow soldier. Hooah."

"Hooah," Roque says, and pulls himself into the seat. 

He rides the next several hundred miles in silence. When they reach St. Louis, he leaves Tom what money he can, tucking it in the seat so it's not so obvious that Tom'll catch him and give it back. 

Roque's on his own again, but with nowhere else to go, St. Louis sounds like a good place to lay low for a while.

~*~

He works out a deal with the owner of a local bar: he stays off the books and he'll work for tips only.

They seal it with a handshake, and Roque works that night. He makes enough in tips that he can afford a cheap-ass hotel on the far side of town. He lays carefully on the bed, breathing past the way his muscles have twisted up from all the heavy lifting and the constant, repetitive movements. 

It's lonely, quiet, and for a little while, except for the roaches in his room and the drunk assholes at the bar, it's good.

~*~

He gets blackbagged coming out of the bar at 4 in the morning, heading out through the alley to avoid the brawl at the front. It's not his job to clear up fights anymore, and he's already had a couple of mishaps with random fires when he gets too annoyed with the drunk, macho bullshit. He's learning to handle it.

None of that helps him out when a van squeals to a stop, and he's shot before he can react. It's too clean and professional, so when he wakes up, he's not surprised to see a white guy in a white suit standing in front of him. 

"Interesting," the man says, as cold as the look he sweeps over Roque. Then he smiles, and Roque knows he's fucked. "I've always wanted a mutant for myself."

~*~

Roque nevers gets a name, but he doesn't expect shit. He knows how this works, because he's trained for this. He's lived this. They're going to make him wish he was dead. 

The problem is that they actually kill him, over and over again, getting more creative until he's jolting awake with a gasp and wishing like fuck he knew how to die and stay dead. 

No one's coming for him. 

No one's coming for him, but this time, it's true. 

~*~

Whoever's holding him here, they're creative about his containment, too. The most he manages to figure out is that he's in a bunker when he gets as far as two rights and a left down three long halls and almost reaches another door that opens to the stairs. 

He realizes they don't always kill him. The gas that floods the hall is probably another test, but it knocks him out, so his mutation can't figure out a way around it.

~*~

"What the fuck do you want?" he finally asks when he's about to break and tell them anything to get them to _fucking stop_. He's lost track of the days, and his sleep cycle is so fucked that he can't even tell the difference between dying and falling asleep. 

Max — that's what Roque's been calling the guy in his head — smiles, tugging on the cuffs of his well-pressed suit. "Isn't it obvious, Captain Roque? I want to understand how your mutation works."

The only satisfaction Roque gets is spitting on Max's suit like a last hoorah. They jam a needle in his neck, and he pays for it. When Max keeps his distance the next time Roque wakes up, it's fucking worth it.

~*~

«Roque.»

He's dreaming. Or he's finally cracked. Hard to tell as he works on phasing in and out of the room, hoping he can maintain it long enough that he can walk his way straight out of here. It's been his plan since day one, but it's still the one that gives him the best chance, assuming he doesn't get stuck in a wall, which is still a _concern_. Roque's not going to let himself be afraid of anything except not making it out of here alive.

He can't control the fireballs and his telekinesis — which he's sure he got from one of the many bullets that took him out — isn't as honed as him with a rifle. Weird distinction, but Roque needs something in his hands that requires a trigger, and he's not going to give Jensen the satisfaction of pointing his fingers like guns.

«Roque, stay where you are.»

Like fuck Roque is staying here.

No matter how many guards they post on his door, he manages to disable them, wrenching their rifles free and leaving no survivors behind. He's not stupid, though. He's sure someone, somewhere has sounded the alarm, that the halls are lined with cameras that are all trained on him, the rat in the maze. Now it's time to see how far he gets.

«Roque, please. Friends are coming. We'll be there shortly.»

Roque snorts at that. He doesn't have any friends who are coming to pull his ass out of this. Disavowed and discharged. He's got no one.

He moves down the hall, sticking close to the wall, periodically phasing in and out to avoid a flood of gas. It makes it impossible to keep a rifle in his hands, so he has to leave them behind. It's still the hardest thing to do. 

He gets lost in the maze of the building and thinks he's found a way out only to walk into an empty room, where that's probably his blood on the table. He backpedals fast, ignoring the crazy in his head, so he can map out another route, phase out to avoid the flood of gas and keep moving.

Someone blasting a large-ass hole in the wall sounds like the straightest route from point A to point B. Roque still tries to set whoever's coming through on fire, but the flames move back, Jean's hands raised to keep the fire contained.

"Roque, it's us," she says. "It's okay. We're your friends."

Roque doesn't move away from the wall, gaze darting to Logan when he comes crashing through the opening, slamming one of the guards into the ground, his adamantium claws making messy work of the guy's shoulders.

Logan takes a step forward, even though Scott hisses his name, and Jean moves like she's going to push the rifle out of Roque's reach. 

"You go crazy on us, bub, and I'll have to kick your ass," Logan says.

It's so painfully familiar that Roque laughs. "Get me the hell out of here, then I'll believe you're friendlies."

Logan nods. "Let's go."

The two of them take point, Scott and Jean on their six. Scott makes a straight path easy, blasting through anything that gets in their way, and maybe that's enough to disable the gas system. Or maybe Roque has to trust that they didn't come in here blind. Either way, they make it outside, and Armando's there with a whole bunch of mutants that Roque doesn't know. They're fighting off a charge of people with guns, but they stand a chance, because what they can do— 

Roque holds the rear and watches what all of these mutants can do. None of them take down the building, though, and Roque wants to watch it burn before he boards the jet. 

"We'll get 'em next time," Logan says, and lights his cigar.

For Roque, it's now or never, and as the jet takes off, the answer steadily becomes never. He's not going to get caught up chasing a white whale, losing any more of his life than he already has. 

If he sees Max again, though, he's putting a bullet in him and cremating the body, because Roque is ninety-nine percent sure that no one comes back from that. 

Jean draws Roque's attention, and she repeats the same thing over and over. After a few minutes of focus, Roque realizes she's saying, "It's okay. You're safe now."

He doesn't relinquish the weapon in his hands. He's a security risk, but he doesn't give a fuck right now. When it comes down to it, the one thing he has faith in right now is the rifle in his hands.

~*~

"I'll take him to the infirmary," Armando says, standing before the plane's landed and Scott's given them clearance. 

"Let him," Logan says.

Roque doesn't look at Jean or Scott, but he's sure they're the ones protesting Roque's free movement. 

"He can't take the gun into the mansion," Scott says firmly, and unbuckles himself from the seat, holding out a hand. "Hand it over, Roque."

Roque answers by aiming it, and Logan steps between him and Scott, back to Scott and eyes on Roque.

"Darwin here is going to take you to the infirmary, you got that? Weapons down."

It's fucked up how comforting that sounds. 

"Roque," Logan says, slowly enough that it can penetrate the fog in Roque's brain that's telling him that he needs his weapon if he has a chance in hell of surviving this, "give me the rifle."

"Shit," he breathes. "Shit."

He ejects the clip and shoves the weapon into Logan's hand, spinning around before he can snatch it back. 

He jerks when a hand lands on his shoulder, and Armando says, "It's me," before Roque can beat him to the ground. "You know me, Roque. I'm going to take you to Charles. You'll be okay."

"No," Roque says, more honest than he's ever been. "I'm not okay."

~*~

Roque sits on the table and waits for Charles, and he's glad that Armando's keeping his distance. 

Before Charles can say a word, Roque says, "I can't talk about what happened. Go in my head and see it for yourself."

"Roque," Charles says gently, moving closer.

It takes everything in him not to move back, not to move forward and take Charles down, because Charles is suddenly reading like a threat. "Do it," Roque says, and then shuts his eyes.

He's trusting that Charles isn't going to start digging up the rest of his shit, but starts where Roque tells him, starts with St. Louis. 

«Go two weeks forward», Roque says, and Charles reminds him to breathe. 

Roque sucks it in, sharp and cold and expects to endure every sick fucking way that Max made him die. Maybe it's Charles or maybe Roque's learned something about maintaining a healthy distance from the past. His bet's on Charles, because he can see what happened, but he doesn't feel anything — not the nausea, the anger, the hopeless fear that he wasn't going to make it out. It feels like seconds, and Charles is pulling away, the warmth of his mind receding. 

"You called him Max."

"Old enemy," Roque says, surprised to see Armando with a glass of water when he opens his eyes. "There were a lot of similarities."

Roque chucks the straw and downs the whole glass, nearly choking on it. 

«Rest now. You're among friends.»

As his body grows heavier, eyes sliding shut, Roque is almost starting to believe that.

~*~

Armando doesn't want to tell him, but Roque needs to know and there's no one else he wants to ask. So he waits for it, patient and calm, ready for whatever the answer is.

"About a week."

Roque nods. It felt like longer. Much, much longer. 

But it always does.

~*~

"You stupid big _jerk_!" Tabitha socks him square in the shoulder with enough force that Roque rocks back on his heels. "I hate you. I hate you _so much_ , oh my _god_." Then she flings her arms around his neck, squeezing him so tight that he can't breathe. He brings his arms up, and he can feel Tabitha shaking. "Don't you ever, _ever_ be that dumb again."

"Not planning on it," Roque says, deadpan, and Tabitha kicks his shin. 

"Don't _even_. I am never going to forgive you."

But she doesn't let go until Armando steps forward, sets a hand on her shoulder, and says, "Any chance I can join in?"

Tabitha pouts at him but rolls her eyes, moving a little to the left without unwrapping her arms from around Roque's neck. "Fine. I guess you can."

Roque figured Armando should be asking _him_ , but he realizes pretty quickly that Armando hasn't moved forward, that he's staring at Roque meaningfully. Roque nods, and then Armando slides an arm around his waist, hugging him, too. It's the first time they've touched since Roque got back, since Charles said, "This experience hasn't been easy for you, but I trust you among our students."

"We done yet?" Roque asks when he realizes they're not letting go.

"The words you _want_ ," Tabitha says, "are 'I'm sorry for being a big, dumb jerk and bailing on the coolest kid in this school without even saying good-bye and getting myself kidnapped by some mutant-hating psychos.'"

"Tabby's right," Armando says, and sounds like he's struggling to hold back a laugh. "You didn't say bye to me either."

"But that's okay." Tabitha squeezes Roque again, burying her face against his shoulder, voice too vulnerable and soft when she says, "We forgive you anyway."

Roque has nothing to say to that, can't speak past the lump in his throat, so he shuts his eyes and holds them a little while longer.

~*~

"Beer," Logan says, setting a case between them as he drops onto the couch.

"Yeah, I see that," Roque says, but takes a bottle, using the end table to pop off the cap. 

Logan uses his claws, because he's an asshole like that. They watch hockey. Roque doesn't know what the fuck is going on half the time, but that's not the point. They go through a case of beer and bitch at the screen anyway without ever talking about what happened or if Roque's okay. 

It's only been a few days, but Roque's tired of the question, tired of saying yes.

During a commercial, he gets up for the second case of beer. He and Logan clink their bottles together and raise them in a silent toast. Roque's toast is for a team he never expected to find again. He doesn't have to dwell on that thought, though, because they both turn their attention back to the screen and shout at the ref for the bullshit penalty call on 28.

~*~

"So how drunk are you?" Armando asks, slipping an arm around Roque's waist.

"Not enough," Roque admits, and leans against Armando. 

The guy's spry, as skinny as he is, taking most of Roque's weight. He can't walk straight for shit, though. 

"Don't worry," Armando laughs, when Roque tells him so. "I got you."

Roque might be a little drunker than he thought, because he knocks his head against Armando when he tries to move in for a kiss.

"Ow." It doesn't hurt that badly, but that's not the point.

Armando laughs again, and Roque realizes that's what he missed — something as sweet and carefree as a laugh. No matter how bad shit got, someone — usually Jensen — was breaking the mood with a bad joke, and the team would laugh, no matter how exasperated and annoyed they all may have been. 

"I'll kiss it better," Armando says. 

"Don't be an asshole," has always been the response to that, but Armando steers Roque to the left with a soft, "Hey," and stares at him, serious again. 

"Only if you'll let me be a friend," Armando says. 

Roque's not drunk enough for this conversation.

"It's okay." Armando helps Roque to the bed, kneeling on the floor. "I already know. No commitments."

Roque doesn't know how to get anyone to understand that he's not sticking around, because he _can't_ , because his team — Clay's team — finding him is only a matter of time. 

"You need to sleep off this hangover," Armando says after he helps Roque get his boots off. "Never drink with Logan. Or me. We can't get drunk. I'll remind you of that in the morning."

"Least I wasn't playing a drinking game," Roque says. It's better than the stupid shit floating in his head like _stay_ when he can't make the same promise, like _thank you_ when he thought he was alone. 

~*~

He cracks open an eye and groans at how bright the room is, even with the curtains shut. "You're still here."

"With water, breakfast, and aspirin," Armando says, holding up the tray before Roque ducks beneath the blankets. 

"Aspirin."

Armando drops two into Roque's outstretched hand and gives him the glass of water. 

"Did I say anything stupid?" he asks after he swallows them down and waits for the nausea to pass. 

"Nothing too bad that I can hold against you."

Roque is mostly shielded by the blanket when he peeks at what's on the tray. "I thought you said you brought breakfast." He lifts the spoon out of the bowl and watches the oatmeal fall thick back into the bowl. "This looks like slop."

"That's the last time I bring you breakfast in bed."

Armando's smiling, though, which means he isn't serious. Roque's starting to key in on the small things like that. So he takes a chance, reaches out for Armando's hand, and runs his thumb over Armando's knuckles. "You could bring me something else."

Armando sets the tray down on the floor and slides into bed. "Is that your subtle way of saying you want a morning blowjob instead?"

Roque shakes his head as he slides a hand up Armando's side, feeling his way through this, at how easy Armando makes this. "I'm not that subtle." He coasts a hand higher and curls his fingers around Armando's jaw, stares steady into his eyes, because he should've said this weeks ago. "You helped get me out of there." Thank god Roque doesn't have to say more than that. He hopes he doesn't when Armando's smile wavers, the warmth in his expression replaced with something a hell of a lot more serious. 

"Isn't that how you guys do it in the Army? No man left behind?"

Roque has to swallow around the lump that forms in his throat, the way it shakes in his chest and makes his heart give that uncomfortable jolt in answer. "Hasn't been that way in a long time."

"I think," Armando says, hand sliding easy up Roque's back, rubbing warm circles down again, "we've changed that."

He can't meet Armando's eyes anymore, and he stares at Armando's mouth instead, drops his gaze lower to Armando's chin, so Armando's not reading anything more than what Roque's trying to say, which is a, "Yeah," almost too soft to hear himself. "Yeah, I know."

Armando tilts his face up, and Roque's got enough respect for him not to look away a second time. "I've got your back. We all do."

The kiss prevents Roque from saying anything else, but he's glad for it. It's as clear and solid as a promise.

~*~

Roque refuses to teach any classes, but he gets roped into a few one-on-one sessions with some of the kids. His advice is practical: fuck ups happen, keep your head, learn to think on your feet. 

Charles has a brief talk with him about using the word 'fuck up,' and Tabitha rolls her eyes when she hears the news. How she hears, Roque doesn't know, but she says, "I bet Scott tattled on you. He's such a goodie-goodie."

Roque tries to curb his language and remember that he's not in the Army anymore. He can't remember how many ways he tried to tell Clay that, but it's harder to shake than just saying it. 

It's what Roque knows, though, so he uses what he's got and tries to teach the kids how not to use their powers. 

Ben says, "Dude," and points at his head. Roque's gotten used to this — seeing the kids as they are, the things that they can't hide. 

"Yeah, it's a part of you," Roque says. "But you've got other talents, too."

He doesn't know when the hell he became a teacher spouting off cliche lines, so he leans against the desk and tells them a reality they hadn't considered — one where their powers aren't enough and one where they don't have powers. 

The kids look at each other, and it's obvious that they never considered either possibility. 

"Plan for the worst," Roque says. 

It's why he's not surprised when the team finally locates him.

~*~

They breach the mansion in the middle of the night, but four months and change was long enough for Roque to convince Charles to install actual security and have a contingency plan, so everyone knew where to go if shit hit the fan. He makes the school run drills, too. 

The security system can't hold up to Jensen — or a dedicated government hacker — but when the mansion goes dark, the kids are moving down the hall, single file, each of them headed through the tunnels hidden behind the walls while Roque, Armando and Logan advance down the hall to neutralize the threat. 

That threat happens to be Clay, Pooch, and Aisha moving single file, and the moment Roque spots them, he tells Ororo to search for Cougar on the roof. "He's gonna be somewhere high. Flush him out." He knows the lightning storm that she creates will fuck with Jensen's tech and flush him out next. 

"I know I killed him," Pooch says when they're face-to-face, the team lined up against a wall, unphased by the fact that they got taken down by people whose powers can't be explained. 

"You did," Roque says.

Jensen charges forward, but all it takes to stop him is Jean raising a hand, erecting some sort of barrier between Jensen and Roque. That doesn't stop Jensen from pushing against it, jabbing a finger into the invisible wall to make his point. "Then how are you still standing here like a smug SOB?"

"I think the better question," Charles says, "is why you thought it necessary to invade our home."

Clay stares down at him, getting the measure of Charles in a quick sweep, relaxing just enough to warm Charles up with his typical buddy grin. "Sir, I don't think you know what this man is capable of."

"I'm well aware," Charles says with a smile of his own. 

Roque expects Aisha to make a move, but Jean stops those bullets, too. She's getting stronger. All of them are, Roque thinks when he spots Tabitha moving forward, hands glowing, Logan right behind her with his claws out. 

"Try it again, lady," Tabitha says, eyes narrowed, "and we all go boom."

It's the wrong threat to make, but Roque can't teach them everything. He motions for everyone to stand down, lets the team see it, because he's not going to hide behind anyone. 

"You want me, Clay, I'm right here." Roque can't hide his bitterness, the anger that speeds up his heartbeat as he steps forward. "You going to put another bullet in my head? Blow me up again?" Which only serves as a reminder of what Max did to him, that week Roque spent doing nothing _but_ dying. 

He wonders if Clay can see that, if Clay ever looked long enough to take notice of what he's doing to the team. There's too much intent in Clay's eyes, though, when he stares Roque down, says, "Yeah, I was thinking about it. Whatever will put you down. _Permanently_." He's not seeing anything but a mission accomplished, another problem handled. 

Roque spreads his arms. "Go ahead."

"Are you serious?" Jensen blurts. "Is he serious? Is this a decoy? A clone? So not cool, Roque. So not cool."

"You need the closure," Roque says, not looking at anyone but Clay, "then do it."

Roque doesn't expect anything less than Clay pulling the trigger. Clay doesn't disappoint. Roque hears the shot, has that split second of feeling every other bullet he took for Clay's debts, but this time, he's got a lot more control over what he can do. The bullet passes right through him. He trusts Jean to keep it from traveling through the house.

"Did you guys just see that?" Jensen says. "Why is it all the assholes get the cool powers? We're the good guys! We should have cool powers to help fight crime."

"Shut up, Jensen," Pooch mutters, holding his rifle a little more tightly. 

"Feel better?" Roque asks, and doesn't flinch when Clay pulls the trigger until the clip is empty. 

"Nice trick," Aisha says, "but you can't survive everything."

Roque waits for everyone to take their shot, but Armando moves between Aisha and Roque, grins at her when the tip of her knife breaks off on his skin. "We've all heard that before. You done?"

Clay's eyes are on Roque. His attention hasn't wavered since he took the first shot. "You should've stayed dead."

Roque doesn't let it bother him. Truth is: "I tried."

Maybe that's answer enough. Maybe the answer is in the way Armando steps back, sliding his hand into Roque's and squeezing. it still takes effort to hold on, to let Armando's grip tighten around his fingers, but Roque stays steady and watches Clay. 

Clay stares for so long that Roque's waiting for another accusation, for a _should've tried harder_ , because he knows this isn't over between him and Clay, between him and the team. 

Clay holsters his piece. "Let's go, Losers."

"No way!" Jensen jerks out of Pooch's grip and waves at Roque. "This asshole betrayed us and left us to die. I want a goddamn sorry at the very least! I want some answers!"

It takes a lot of effort to keep his fingers loose in Armando's grip and his mind carefully blank so Charles won't reach out and try to console him, too. 

"You should've asked before you tried to kill me," Roque says. 

"Fuck you, man. Fuck you."

Roque takes it the way he's been taking everything else — with a steady calm. He and the team have a long history of choices and reasons for making those choices that'll haunt them, but he knows what he did and he knows why he did it. He's not asking for forgiveness when he can see it in their faces, see it in their eyes that they're still chasing after Max, pretending to be soldiers. Pretending to be the good guys. Roque wants to ask Pooch how Jolene is doing, if they had a baby boy or a baby girl, but the question sounds too cruel. 

The Losers were always a makeshift family, but as Roque watches them walk away — Pooch tugging Jensen's arm, Cougar tipping his hat like a promise of 'next time', and Clay looking back once just to see if Armando's still got Roque's hand — Roque can come to terms with the fact that they're not his family. They'll always be his team, but they're not his family anymore.

"What total _jerks_ ," Tabitha says, and takes a deep breath, winding herself down. She grins at Roque as she shakes out her hands. "I was _so_ hoping you'd let me blow them up."

"I'm pleased that you've learned restraint," Charles says, humor dry as he turns to face everyone. "We have enough cleaning up to do."

«Are you all right?»

Roque laughs, weak and a little flat, but with Charles in his head, he doesn't have to share more than that. «What do you think?»

«I think you're home.» Charles' words are so simple, so easy that it hurts, shaking through Roque before he has a chance to catch his breath. 

There's something too damn warm about the way Charles sits in Roque's head, even when he's slipped out again and moves down the hall to check on the kids. 

Roque reaches out before Charles vanishes and says «Thanks.»

He doesn't expect Charles to say, «You're welcome», but it's there all the same. 

"Hey," Armando says, fingers slipping free of Roque's hold, sliding warm up Roque's arm. He could say 'I told you so,' but he stares at Roque so long that Roque knows what he's asking is, 'are you okay?'

Roque nods, can't find the words to say it, but Armando smiles, leans up, and kisses him, makes Roque hold on as he opens his mouth for the slide of Armando's tongue, the heavy heat that settles over him the longer they stand in the hall with all the proof that Roque needs. 

"Come on," Armando whispers, but kisses Roque one more time before he draws away, wrapping his hand around Roque's like it belongs there. Maybe it does. At least for a little while more. 

What makes this so easy as they head down the hall is that Armando's not asking for any commitments, so Roque doesn't have to make any promises that he might have to break.

**Author's Note:**

> Technically, there is character death. Roque dies in this fic. _A lot_. But! His mutation resurrects him, so it's not permanent death, which is pretty much how comics work anyway. 
> 
> So apparently, Jack White's new album Blunderbuss became the unofficial soundtrack for me while writing this fic. The title is a lyric from his song "Love Interruption."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [walk right up and bite me (grab a hold of me and fight me)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/647490) by [A (mumblemutter)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/A), [cm (mumblemutter)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm)
  * [change my friends to enemies (show me how it's all my fault)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4849976) by [Moriavis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moriavis/pseuds/Moriavis)




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